


Life is Not a Storybook

by Compass_Rose



Series: Once Upon a Time AU (Sanders Sides Edition) [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crossover, Dark One Virgil, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Not a lot of comfort, Physical hurt, ouat crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Compass_Rose/pseuds/Compass_Rose
Summary: Patton and his sixteen-year-old son, Roman, didn't come into this world in the usual way. They weren't born into it; they fell. Into a portal from another realm, a realm where monarchies are the primary form of government, indoor plumbing has yet to be invented, and magic is as real as the air we breathe.That was seven months ago.Nowadays, Patton just tries to blend in. He runs a bakery in the small town of Lockevale and does his best to forget about a world he no longer has anything to do with. A world he shouldn't have anything to do with. But when one of Roman's friends discovers an artifact Patton had hidden away, the baker finds that the past is only ever as far away as your memories allow--and that a lie can be the most dangerous thing of all....Because only a lie has the power to destroy trust.
Relationships: Patton & Roman, Patton & Roman & Virgil, Roman & Logan & Thomas
Series: Once Upon a Time AU (Sanders Sides Edition) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697473
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Life is Not a Storybook

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to StarStorm21 and Buddy, who helped me decide whether or not to post this as a multi-chapter fic. I appreciate it, guys.
> 
> This is an Sanders Sides/OUAT crossover fic. For anyone who's not an OUAT fan, the only thing you really need to know for this story is that the Dark One curse is the most powerful evil in all the known realms and that whoever bears the curse gains nearly unrivaled dark magic, but has their soul bound to a mysterious black-and-silver dagger which bears their name as a result (all magic comes with a price, you know). The Dark One can be separated from this dagger without incident, but whoever controls the dagger, controls the Dark One.

The rain pelted the roof with a steady rhythm and water ran in rivulets down the windows, one drop barely touching the glass before the next pushed it down the pane. Puddles, if they could still be called that, littered the asphalt road haphazardly, almost drowning out the street in some areas. Far above the small town of Lockevale, lightning lanced its’ own path through the darkened sky, briefly illuminating the waterlogged homes below. Thunder roared in light’s wake, it’s angry clamor providing an occasional counterpoint to the constant drum of the torrent currently being unleashed upon the sleepy little hamlet.

It truly was a night not fit for man or beast.

Humming a little tune under his breath, Patton flipped the pastel ‘Come on In! We have Cookies!’ sign of his live-in bakery over to the equally colorful ‘Sorry! We’re Closed for the Dough-ment!’ side. While he normally didn’t close up shop until 6:00 PM, he seriously doubted anyone in town would be willing to risk death by drowning just to buy a cupcake. At least, he hoped not. The baker paused long enough to flick the lights off in the storefront, before heading to the back door which would lead to the actual house part of his house. His way was momentarily illuminated by a brilliant flash, followed by a rumble so loud it made the poor man flinch. Boy, was he glad he didn’t have to walk home in that storm!

Even with the relentless pounding of rain, Patton still recognized the strident voice of his son long before he reached the living room. Two other voices, quieter and somewhat lackluster, answered the first, and though they weren’t as easily identifiable over the torrent, Patton soon realized that his son had invited his friends over without mentioning it again. A quick glance in the living room was all the baker needed to prove his theory. And sure enough, when he looked, he found three sixteen-year-old boys occupying the room, each looking impossibly bored out of their minds.

Thomas was the first of the three to spy him, the brown-haired teen having spun lazily around in his chair at just the right moment to catch Patton lingering in the doorway. The boy’s eyes lit up upon seeing him and he opened his mouth to greet his friend’s father, but the baker impishly pressed a finger to his lips, signaling the other to be quiet. Brown eyes danced with mirth, but Thomas did as he was asked, quickly turning back around to hide the smile that was threatening to break out across his face.

From the couch, Logan cleared his throat, addressing the room at large without bothering to tear his gaze away from a rain-splattered window. “In lieu of any other stimulating activities that may be engaged in at present, we _could_ use this time to complete our homework assignments. And when I say ‘we’, I am using the Royal We to address the fact that all of us may complete some form of educational work, since I have already done my homework prior to coming here and will use my time instead to begin working on next week’s assignments, while the two of you could use this period to actually finish your work on time for once, instead of rushing to get it done on the bus the way you always do.”

“Yeah, we got that,” the third teen, Roman, retorted loudly, though his tone was just monotonous as Logan’s had been. “But we aren’t doing that. We’re bored, Lo, not dying.” He ran his hand through hair, resuming the pacing he had stopped when his friend had spoken. “There’s gotta be something fun we can do.”

“Reread the complete works of William Shakesphere?” Logan suggested.

Roman snorted, casting a derisive glance at the intellectual. “I said something _fun_.”

“That is fun.”

“Maybe to a nerd.”

“That is hardly the worst thing I’ve ever been called.”

Patton quickly stepped into the room. “Thomas, Logan! I didn’t know you two were coming over.”

Roman whirled around, his right-hand darting to his side in an instant, though his fingers only met the coarse fabric of his jeans. A second later he flushed and straightened his battle stance meeting Patton’s amused gaze with his own. “Dad. I thought you were still in the shop.”

Patton giggled, allowing his smirk to soften into a genuine smile as he regarded his son. “I closed up because of the storm. No one was coming in anyway. If I’d known we had guests, though, I would have come up sooner.”

“Or put us to work cleaning,” Thomas called, grinning with open humor at Roman’s start.

“Yes,” Patton allowed as Roman scowled at his friend. “Or that. Of course, if you’re still bored, I’m sure we can find something to do.”

“Dad,” Roman grunted. It’s Friday. My friends don’t wanna do actual work on a Friday, even if it is raining. Things are different now, _remember_?”

“I know that, Roman.” Patton was careful to keep his voice genial, even as he frowned up at his son. “I was just going to say that maybe there’s another rainy day activity that you can do. Like playing a…board game, or reading books, or putting on a play togeth—”

Thomas nearly bolted from his chair. “A play? Yes! That’s a great idea! We have to get in more practice for the drama the theater department’s putting on next month, remember Princey? Now’s the perfect time to do it!”

“Unbelievable,” Logan sighed, finally looking away from the window. “You won’t do your homework, which is due _Monday,_ but you’ll practice for a theatrical performance which has auditions three weeks away?”

Roman looked at Logan. “Uh, yeah?”

Thomas blinked, tilting his head slightly. “What’s your point?”

Logan stared at the other teens for a minute, before reaching down for his fraying bookbag. “Why do I even try with you two?”

“Logan? Where are you going?” Roman questioned.

The industrious student stood up, walking around his friends. “Home,” he replied simply. "I have no interest in acting, as the two of you do, and you don’t require me to participate in your ‘play’. Therefore, there is no purpose to my presence here. I will most likely see you, if not over the weekend, then in school Monday. Good day, Thomas, Roman. Mr. Hart.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Patton hurried to stand in front of the boy, blocking his exit. “I may not have known you two were paying a visit,” he glanced pointedly at Roman, who scoffed in return. “But the fact of the matter is you’re here now. And you’re certainly not leaving, not while that storm is kicking up such a fuss.”

“Mr. Hart—”

“Nope,” the baker chirped brightly. “I don’t want to hear it. You don’t have to be part of the play if you don’t want to—you can be the audience, or do schoolwork, whatever you want. But you aren’t leaving this house while that tempest is yowling, you hear me?”

Logan stared at Patton, taking in the other’s firm posture and the barest glimmer of steel behind his gentle eyes. It was somewhat similar to the way his own father looked whenever he had a ‘job’ for Logan. Expect his father never softened it with a smile, the way Mr. Hart always seemed to. And he was more likely to order Logan out into the storm than in from it. With a sigh, the teen allowed his bag to slip off his shoulder, conceding to his elder with a respectful, “Yes, Mr. Hart.”

Behind his back, Thomas cast a confused glance at Roman and mouthed ‘tempest?’, but the other merely shrugged and looked away.

Patton cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the awkward tension that had filled the room. “Well, I won’t intrude on you three any longer. Logan, Thomas, you know you have open access on anything in the house. Just be careful, and be sure you clean up when you’re through, ok?”

“Yes, Mr. Hart.” The two chorused, while Roman muttered a vague agreement of his own. Patton sighed, the smile slipping from his face as he watched his son. For a moment, he considered drawing Roman away from the others to speak with him, but he squashed down that idea almost as soon as it formed. He knew from experience that Roman wouldn’t want to talk about anything from, well, before…not as long as Logan and Thomas were in the house. And, besides, it wasn’t like there was anything new he could say, anyway. He’d already tried to explain his point of view, but Roman stubbornly refused to listen. Unfortunately, that wasn’t something that was likely to change anytime soon.

With a sigh, he forced himself to turn back from the living room and head into the kitchen. Maybe he could at least use this time to try out some new recipes for the bakery.

As Patton left, Thomas turned a reproachful glare on Roman, who stiffened slightly as he caught it. “What?”

“Seriously?” Thomas cried. “You couldn’t have been a little nicer to him? He’s your Dad, Princey.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” Roman scowled. “I had no idea. All this time I thought he was just a stranger. But he’s really my Dad? Could that be why he lets me live with him and tells me to clean my room?”

Thomas flinched back at the sarcastic tirade, but Logan cut in before he could respond, walking over to where the other two were standing. “Roman. There is no need to lash out at Thomas. Of course we are all aware of the relation you and Mr. Hart share, and we’re aware that you know about it as well. Thomas was just reminding you that you should be less hostile toward Mr. Hart and show him more respect. You’re very lucky to have him as a father,” Logan added when Roman opened his mouth to sneer a reply. “Not everyone is as fortunate.”

Roman visibly swallowed his anger, forcing himself to be the bigger man here and not fight Logan. Not on this. “I…know that,” he admitted carefully. “Dad’s a good dad in a lot of ways. But there’s a reason I’m so angry with him. And it’s hard…to let that go.”

“Roman,” Thomas laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “If there’s something you want to talk about, we’ll listen.”

Roman nodded, his own hand coming up to clasp the one Thomas placed on his shoulder. “I know you would, Thomas. Both of you would. I just—it’s personal.”

“We understand,” Logan assured him.

“Yeah, take all the time you need, buddy.” Thomas gave his shoulder one more squeeze before pulling away. “We’ll both still be here when you’re ready.”

“Thanks,” Roman muttered, a slight blush coloring his face. “That really means a lot.” He sniffed sharply through his nose once, before allowing his voice to rise up into the vivid, dramatic cadence his friends liked to call his Extra Princey voice. “Now, enough wasting time. We have a show to put on, gentlemen. It shall be an epic saga, a tale of courageous heroes and valiant warriors. A legend of a love so pure and a light so great that no darkness could ever stand against it. It will be a record that we shall preserve for the ages, and it shall go down into the annals of history.”

For a moment, there was only silence from his friends. Then Logan spoke. “Roman, if I live to be a hundred, I doubt I will _ever_ meet anyone as dramatic as you are.”

“He means that in the best way possible,” Thomas cut in quickly.

Roman only laughed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was decided, after much deliberation and a promise that Roman and Thomas would do their homework immediately after putting on the play, that Logan would participate in the performance after all. Once Logan had been properly coerced into acting, there was only the simple matter of writing the storyline and the scripts and finding enough household materials to stand in as props. Or, at least, it should have been simple. But as others had learned many times before, nothing was ever really simple when it involved these three in particular.

“For the twenty-second time, Roman. We have to come up with a specific idea and write out all of our scripts first, or the story won’t make any sense!” Logan crossed his arms, scowling at the impatient teen.

“By the time you’re done with all that, the storm will be over and you and Thomas will have to leave,” Roman rebuffed, shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that he was the tallest out of his friends to tower over the agitated Logan. “We have to get the props and start the play now!”

Logan puffed out his cheeks angrily, in a manner that made him look very similar to a chipmunk, not that anyone would ever dare say so. “If we start preforming _before_ we have a script, we run the risk of creating a theatrical performance that is nonsensical and asinine!”

“Oh, please. Some of the best players—I mean, _actors—_ did their work completely ad lib. It provides a better environment for creativity to flow, allowing the characters to tap you on the shoulder and invite you as a spectator on _their_ adventure. And writing a script basically just destroys all that!”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! I suppose next, you’ll tell me that you think that writing without a forty-two-page outline, at minimum, is a perfectly acceptable way to compose a work of fiction!”

“Well, _now that you mention it_ —”

“Roman! Logan!” Thomas snapped, pushing his way in between his two friends, who were currently mere inches away from one another and glaring at each other the way a dog might glare at a cat. “Stop acting like little kids for a minute and listen. Maybe there’s a way we can do both.”

“What?” Logan snapped.

How?” Roman demanded.

Thomas sighed, gesturing for them to put a little more space between each other, for his peace of mind if nothing else. Reluctantly, the two shuffled back to a respectable distance. “Thank you. Now, what I was thinking was that Roman and I could look around for miscellaneous stuff to stand in for props. You know, just get a random and diverse bunch of stuff that would basically stand in for any play. And while we do that, Logan could write up a basic outline—NOT a forty-two page one, maybe like a five page one—to give us that direction and make sure the play makes sense. _And_ since it’s only five pages that would leave a lot room for improvisation and creativity, so we can have fun with it too. What do you think?”

Roman and Logan exchanged a look. “That’s actually a sound compromise, Thomas. Congratulations.” Logan praised.

“It’s a good idea, Thomothy,” Roman smirked, reaching over to give the shorter boy a noogie.

Thomas’ triumphant grin quickly changed to a glare as he tried to avoid the other teen. “Hey! Roman, knock it off! And don’t call me Thomothy, man, that’s not even a name.”

“Whatever you say, Thomothy.”

“Roman!”

“If you’re both done acting like children,” Logan began, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had been acting like one only moments ago, “perhaps you can go and seek out the ‘props’ we will need to put on this dramatization, while I begin work on the ludicrously short outline?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going.” Roman groused, before suddenly turning and jabbing one finger accusingly in Logan’s direction. “You just remember to keep it short and sweet, ok? Five pages, Lo, not one period more.”

“Agreed,” Logan nodded succinctly.

Mollified, Roman followed Thomas out of the living room, each heading in a separate direction as they searched for items to use in their play.

Half an hour later, they declared their search finished. Between the two of them, they’d managed to accumulate a large and diverse selection of potential props, enough—with a little imagination—to cover whatever genre Logan had elected to write.

“That…certainly is quite the compilation of artifacts,” Logan admitted upon seeing all that they had found. He picked up a mop curiously. “I must admit I am unsure what we shall do with half of these items.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “That’s for the swordfight between the dashing prince and moronic villain. Duh.”

Logan squinted at Roman from behind his glasses. “There’s no swordfight in my outline.”

“There’s not?!” Roman yelped, snatching the proffered outline from Logan’s hand and scanning the pages desperately.

“Of course not. It’s science-fiction. The setting of the events is in _space_.”

“What?!”

“Ah, Logan, not to criticize your artistic flow or anything, but…if the story’s in space, does that mean that the main setting is a spaceship or space station or something?” Thomas questioned, rubbing the back of his neck uneasily.

“That’s right,” Logan nodded confidently, pride clearly evident in the square set of his shoulders and the assertive thrust of his chin. “Specifically, the Outpost Station, 39r-Delta-25&. It is the final Outpost between the safe human-inhabited planets, and the unexplored galaxy beyond. I am aware that the drama associated with an important item or location being rare or hard to reach helps make fictional stories enjoyable. So, I incorporated that knowledge into my outline.”

“Outpost Station?! You can’t have a swordfight in an Outpost Station! Where would you even get the swords?!” Roman waved the outline indignantly.

“Obtaining swords would not be an issue,” Logan responded calmly. “Since there are no swords in my outline either.”

_“What?!”_

Thomas swallowed, gentling his voice as much as he could without making it seem like he was talking down to the guy who was probably a for-real, actual genius. “Uh, Logan. I’m sure you wrote a great story and everything. It’s just…we need to be able to perform it in a play…here, at Roman’s house, and I—I just don’t know how we’re gonna make Outpost Stations or spaceships or anything out of what we managed to find here.”

Logan froze, staring at Thomas as though he had just perfectly recited the square root of Pi. “What?”

“Yeeeaaah,” Thomas squeaked, dragging out the word as long as he could. “Just, we have all this stuff, but it’s not really anything we can build an Outpost out of, so…” he trailed off awkwardly.

Logan blinked at Thomas, before scanning the items he and Roman had gathered, looking for something that could prove the other wrong. He found nothing, and instead turned back to face the outline which Roman still held clinched in his hand. He stared at it for a moment, before facing the pile of junk yet again. His eyes darted back and forth between the two several times, and his complexion grew slightly redder as he realized the error he had made. Holding up one finger perfunctorily, he muttered, “Well, I did manage to trim the majority of the story down to fit your five-page requirement, anyway.”

“Yeah, you did,” Roman laughed, clapping him on the back and earning a glare for his efforts. “Now let’s see if we can meet that five-page limit and still make it a play we can actually put on. Preferably something with swords.”

Thomas shoved Roman lightly. “You’ve got a one-tract mind, Princey. You know that?”

“Why would you ever need more than one?” Roman shot back.

“For several reasons, Roman,” Logan lectured, shaking his head slightly. “Having more than one ‘tract’, as you put it, helps you be aware of multiple stimuli in your environment, which can help you re—”

“Logan,” Roman interrupted the scholar before he could get too far into his lecture. There’d be no stopping him once he really got going. “It was a joke. A figure of speech. Quit being a nerd and help us figure out the best play to put on with,” he waved his hand at the assorted junk pile, “all of this.”

“Very well,” Logan eyed the mess in distaste. “But it may take some time. This is quite the variety of items you two have collected.”

“Hey,” Thomas defended, “we just wanted to make sure we got enough stuff for the play.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You realize that by the time we go through all of it, figure out what we can use and what we don’t need, and come up with an outline that is satisfactory to us all, we will have spent more time than if we had simply written the script and then sought out the specific items we need?”

Thomas decided that the groan Roman gave could definitely be heard from China.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Patton carefully lifted the pie out of the oven, breathing in the aroma of flakey butter-crust and sweet fruit. He had tried a recipe of his own invention, choosing to mix several different kinds of berries together in the filling instead of the traditional one or two. He had also added a bit of cinnamon, nutmeg, and some vanilla extract to the crust for taste, and he was very excited to see how it had turned out.

Transferring the pie to a potholder he’d laid down so as not to burn the countertop, Patton quickly grabbed a serving knife, plate, and fork, and cut into the pie, skillfully plating the slice without incident. Too impatient to wait for it to cool, the baker bit into the pie as quickly as he could, only to cry out as the hot dish instantly burned his tongue. Patton chewed fast, swallowing as soon as he was able, but the damage had already been done. “Sweet Sassafras, that hurts!” Patton whimpered, pouring himself a cold glass of water to try and ease the sting. After he’d drunk all he could hold, he turned back to the cooling pie, eyeing it speculatively. “It was pretty good, though. You might even say it was berry delicious!” He laughed brightly at the joke, only to pause a moment later as his pun-inclined brain began to work overtime. “Hmm, berry delicious…Berry-licious. That’s it! I’ll call this my Berri-liscious Pie! It’ll be a big hit; I just know it!” He stared down at the pie, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction for his new confection. It really was a tasty treat, an odd combination of sweet and tart, with the barest hint of earthy kick thanks to the cinnamon and nutmeg. He couldn’t wait until his slice cooled properly to finish it! In fact…. The baker’s gaze slid over to the kitchen door. There were three other people in this house who would probably enjoy a sugary snack as well.

Patton quickly plated up three fresh slices of pie, arranging them neatly on a tray alongside three glasses of ice-cold milk. Eager to get another opinion on his new recipe, and more than a little curious as to what kind of play the boys finally decided to put on, he fast-walked out the kitchen and back to the living room, only to find the three friends knee deep in a pile of junk.

It wasn’t the fact that his things were strewn to kingdom come that bothered him. He had given Logan and Thomas open access on his house months ago and he had never wanted or needed to rescind that offer in any way. It wasn’t the mess they had made of his living room that caused him to freeze in the doorway. All of the teens were not only capable of picking up after themselves, but certainly willing to as well. And though Roman did like to gripe on occasion, Thomas and Logan had never once left his house in disarray, in all the times they had visited it.

No, it was the sight of Thomas, standing innocently among the sea of random items, his hand clasped around the spiraling handle of a black-and-silver blade, that made Patton freeze like a deer in headlights and sent the tray he carried crashing to the ground in a shower of pie and glass. “Thomas Sanders! You put that thing down this instant!”

The three teens all jumped at the sudden clatter of plates falling to the floor. Roman, yet again, sunk into a fighting stance before recognizing the source of the sudden noise. He scowled, intending to remind his father that it wasn’t polite to sneak around like a thief in the night, even if he _did_ own the house. Before he could rebuke Patton, however, his dad turned on Thomas, scolding the shorter boy in a tone of voice that Roman hadn’t heard since they came to Lockevale. Confused at what his normally agreeable friend could have done to earn Patton’s ire, the younger Hart glanced in the other teen’s direction, only to find Thomas staring equally wide-eyed at Patton and holding a familiar, wavy blade.

Roman’s heart plunged into his stomach at the sight, but Thomas merely blinked, his brow crinkling as he tried to understand the reason for Patton’s sudden anger. “M-mr. Hart? Did I do something wrong?”

Patton didn’t bother to answer him. Instead, the normally mild-mannered baker marched across the room and snatched the weapon from his hand. “Don’t touch this!” Patton seethed, looking more furious than Thomas or Logan had ever seen him. “Don’t ever touch it! It’s more dangerous than you know!”

“Dad!” Roman’s sharp cry drew Patton’s attention, and he turned to look at his son, surprised by the emotion he found there. Roman was staring at him with the same silent warning he always gave whenever Patton came too close to mentioning certain things, but there was also a deep hurt inscribed in his eyes—a pain that sliced through Patton’s red haze faster than any calming technique ever could. Breathing deeply, the baker turned back to the young man before him, who was looking at Patton with an odd combination of fear and shock, like he was rabid wolf that could strike at any moment. Guilt stirred within the gentle father, and he offered a sad, apologetic smile, trying to ease the other’s nerves. “I’m sorry, Thomas, I didn’t mean to scare you. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“I wasn’t _scared_ ,” Thomas blustered, straightening a bit and calling on the same bravado that every teen did when faced with something that frightened them. “Just a little surprised. I don’t think I’ve actually heard you raise your voice before now, Mr. H. Wasn’t expecting it, was all.”

“Ah,” Patton nodded, a knowing twinkle gleaming in his eyes despite the situation. “Well, in that case kid—Thomas, I’m sorry for surprising you. It’s just—you kids shouldn’t be playing with weapons like this,” he prevaricated. “I don’t even know where you found it…”

Roman rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “We’re sixteen, not six. Even Thomas and Lo know how to handle knives responsibly by now. Seriously, Dad, come up with a better excuse.” His voice was pitched too low for Patton or Thomas to hear him, but Logan overheard him easily, and cast him a curious look.

“Why would your father need an excuse of any kind? And what do you mean by ‘even Thomas and Lo’? You aren’t any more aware of the precautions one must take when handling sharp objects than we are.”

Roman snorted involuntary, even as he felt a slight pulse of fear race up his spine. Of course he knew how to handle knives—and other ‘sharp objects’—better than they did! He just couldn’t exactly tell them that, could he?

While Roman racked his brains trying to come up with an explanation that would satisfy Logan’s relentless curiosity, without delving too deep into a past better left buried, Thomas was attempting to explain how he came across the one object in the entire house Patton hadn’t wanted them to find.

“Well, Roman and I decided to split up and look for stuff we could use in the play. And you did say we could use anything so long as we were careful, so…” The teen chewed on his bottom lip, shifting from foot to foot. He felt like he had broken a rule without even knowing what it was, and the last thing he wanted to do was make Roman’s dad mad enough to ban him and Logan from visiting Roman’s house ever again, the way Logan’s father had done.

“I know that, Thomas,” Patton sighed, tilting his head to try and catch the nervous teen’s gaze. “You aren’t in trouble, son. I just thought I had put this some place where no one would—where inquisitive youngsters like yourselves wouldn’t find it. So, how did you?” A thought occurred to the baker, and he hardened his gaze a little more, though he was careful to hold back anything that could possibly be misinterpreted as anger. “You didn’t…go into my room, did you?”

“No! I would never just go into your bedroom like that Mr. H! Not without your permission, and I’d never snoop around even if you did let me!” The genuine horror in Thomas’ voice, along with the expression of utter disbelief on his face, was more than enough to convince Patton that he was telling the truth.

“Alright, I believe you,” Patton assured him, smiling at the relieved look in Thomas’ eyes. “But then where _did_ you find it? I thought for sure I’d left it in my room.”

Thomas shrugged, nearly slumping over with the action as the tension bled out of his stance. “I have no idea where you put it, but I found it in the laundry room. I’d stepped on a pillowcase and it was inside.”

“You—wha?” Patton blinked, glancing at the hateful object in his hand. He figured that inside his pillow was a good place to hide this—this thing. No one ever checked inside pillows, and usually he was really good at remembering to not leave it inside the pillowcase when he changed the sheets. Go figure that the one time he actually did forget, one of Roman’s friends would somehow manage to find it.

“Wait,” Logan’s voice broke the silence. He had been half-listening to their conversation while waiting for Roman to answer his questions, something his normally charismatic friend seemed either unwilling or unable to do, and there was one point he strongly needed to clarify. “Am I to understand, based on Thomas’ explanation, that you typically elect to keep a knife inside your pillowcase on a regular basis?”

“Um, I guess so,” Patton grinned weakly, fiddling with the cuffs of his button-up. Logan was staring at him like he was particularly difficult Calculus equation, and it put him more than a little on edge. Especially since he was still holding the darned thing out in the open where everyone and their mother could see it.

Logan’s eye spasmed and his mouth wrinkled, puckering as though he had tasted something sour. “Should I then question _why_ you choose to keep a knife in your pillowcase?”

“It’s a dagger, actually,” Roman corrected, his voice utterly devoid of the fanciful tones that normally graced it. “And no, you shouldn’t.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed to pin pricks and he whirled, literally and figuratively, on Roman, demanding to know what right the other had to impede his quest for knowledge. Thomas groaned, and with an apologetic glance at Patton, moved to try and keep his oldest friend from killing his newer one. Logan, Thomas knew, was a pretty calm dude most of the time, but one of the fastest ways to hit his berserker button was to try and keep Logan from learning something new—even something as random as why their friend’s dad slept with a knife under his pillow.

As Thomas desperately tried to prevent a murder, Patton slipped out of the living room and up the stairs that led to his and Roman’s rooms. He felt a little strange sneaking away from the boys, almost like a thief lurking about in his own home, but he wanted to hide the—the dagger somewhere safe, somewhere no one, including the kids, would ever find it again. And he wanted—no, he _needed_ to do it as soon as possible. Even in this world, the dagger was too powerful to be carelessly left out in the open.

So, Patton darted into his room, scanning the inside for a place to hide the cursed object. He couldn’t very well hide it in his sheets again, nor could he risk another location where it might be easily discovered—even by a well-meaning friend. But no matter how he paced around the room, picking up books and opening drawers and shoving the vile thing into shadowed corners, he couldn’t find a place safe enough. Not for the Dark One’s dagger.

Frustrated, Patton all but collapsed on his bed, glaring at the dagger with as much hate as he could muster. But even his rage could not completely mask the sadness that—after all this time—still churned violently within him. Even now, a large part of him wanted to cast the odious blade into the fire, to be utterly erased from this world and any other. But a larger part still, the part which recalled the few precious, but sparing, secrets entrusted to him by the dagger’s _true_ owner, knew better. Destroying the dagger was not so easily done, especially by a simple baker with no magic to his name. The only thing that burning it would do would be to cause it to vanish, teleporting to random place, where anyone could find it and call upon it’s true power—if they only knew how.

Patton sighed, running his fingers lightly across the silver, wavy blade. Though he didn’t doubt that the connection between the dagger and the current Dark One was still very much alive, he was once again grateful for the fact that the tether was somewhat weakened, by virtue of the two dark forces literally being worlds apart. Still, as he felt the indentations of the name engraved upon the dagger, he couldn’t help but remember the night he first met the Dark One, many years ago…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Enchanted Forest, 10 years in the past:**

“Ok, Roro, stay back. It’s still hot,” Patton advised as he removed three sweet cakes from the fire pit.

“Yum!” Roman cheered, bouncing on his toes as Patton transferred the sweet cakes to the table to cool. “I wanna eat ‘em all up!”

“You can’t do that, you silly goose! You’d get an awful tummy ache. Besides, we have to save them to sell at market tomorrow, remember?”

“Aw,” the young boy pouted, blinking up at his father with wide, soulful eyes. “But I want one. Please, Daddy? I won’t tell nobody.”

Patton laughed, ruffling the boy’s hair and making it even more unruly than before. “Sorry, buddy. We need the coin to buy you boots and a new pair of breeches for when school starts next spring. You don’t want to be the only one there with holes in your breeches and boots that hurt you when you run, do you?”

“Nu-uh! Cause then dumb ole Marvin’ll make fun of me, and I’ll haveta challenge him to a duel cause he insulted me, and you said I wasn’t ‘posed to do that no more,” the boy recited with a gamy grin.

“That’s right,” Patton agreed. “And that’s why we’re going to sell these cakes instead, ok?”

Roman sighed, his good humor vanishing as he turned back to stare longingly at the forbidden treats. “Ok, Daddy.”

“Hey, why don’t you find something else to do while I put these on the cooling rack,” Patton suggested, figuring that a distraction combined with physically moving the temptation out of reach would help prolong the life of his cakes. “You could play with your toys, or draw a pretty picture, or—”

Roman turned away from the cakes, interest suddenly sparking in his eyes. “Can I go play outside?”

Patton frowned, opening up the shutters over the window to glance at the brown and grey world outside. “I don’t know, Roman. It’s been cold and miserable all day. And I don’t like the look of those clouds. I think we might be in for a blizzard soon.”

“Nu-uh!” Roman turned away from the cakes, crossing his arms like he saw the grownups do sometimes, when they tried to show that they knew stuff. “Cause Travis Thatcher’s Daddy said that we wasn’t even ‘posed to have the first snowfall ‘til next week, and Travis Thatcher says his Daddy knows all ‘bout bad weather cause he was in the army ‘fore his leg got hurt, so he’s seen _everything_. He knows, Daddy.”

“Oh, really?” Patton shook his head, making his expression sad and downcast. “I guess he must know even more than your Daddy, then, huh?”

“Don’t cry, Daddy!” Roman immediately dropped his “smart” stance and ran around the table to Patton, enveloping him in as tight a hug as his six-year-old arms could give. “You know lots of stuff that Travis Thatcher’s Daddy don’t know!”

“I do?” Patton questioned hopefully, hugging his son back just for the joy of it.

“Yeah! You…well…” the boy thought for a moment, realizing that proving his claim was harder than he had expected. Travis Thatcher’s Daddy seemed to know everything! “Um, you’re really good at making cakes,” he tried at last, squirming a bit in Patton’s hold as he turned back to look at the cakes they had just made.

Patton sighed, partly because his son always seemed to have a one tract mind when it came to things he wasn’t supposed to have, and partly because he had been expecting something a little more than ‘you’re much better at doing your job than he is at doing your job’. “Thanks, buddy.”

“You’re welcome,” Roman responded absently, his brow scrunched up in deep thought. After a moment, he reported, “‘cept there was that one time Travis Thatcher and I were playing at his house, and Travis Thatcher’s Daddy let us have cold blackberries with cream.” He licked his lips. “That was real good!”

Patton’s eyes widened and he looked at his son in surprise. “Blackberries with cream…Roman that’s not even real baking! How am I being compared to that?”

Roman blinked up at Patton, repeating himself more clearly in case maybe his Daddy hadn’t heard him right. “Cause it was real good.”

Patton groaned, releasing the boy from his hold. “I never have to worry about getting too full of myself with you around, son.”

“Thank you,” Roman chirped, guessing that Patton probably had meant that as a good thing. His dad was nice that way. And since he was so nice… “Daddy can I go outside and play now?”

Patton looked from the pleading expression on his son’s face to the chilly, but still somewhat passable weather outside. “Well…ok.”

“Yes!” Roman leapt for joy, racing for the door of their little cottage.

“But just for a few minutes! Stay in the yard and come right in when I call you! And make sure you wear your winter cloak,” Patton added, catching up to his son and pulling a heavier, cotton traveling cloak from the pegs beside the door.

“Aw, man! But it’s so itchy!” Roman complained, shifting impatiently in place while Patton tied the cloak around him.

“It’ll also keep you from catching frostbite,” Patton pointed out in the patient tone of someone who has heard the same complaint a million times before. “There, finished. You can go now.”

Freed from his father’s fussing at last, Roman ran for the door as quickly as he could, fleeing the house as though Cerberus itself was on his tail. Patton just laughed as his son raced away, moving to close the door that Roman had left open in his desperate escape.

The young boy raced down a well-worn path, laughing brightly despite the cool wind nipping at his cheeks and tugging on his cloak. He began to slow down as he neared the old wooden fence that half-encircled his home, reaching out for a familiar stick that had been propped up against one of the posts.

The grey, gnarled branch was thin enough for the six-year-old to carry, but it was also sturdy enough that it wouldn’t break easily under the boy’s oh-so-gentle ministrations. It would, perhaps, have made a good base for a torch or a walking sticking for a child with a twisted leg. But when Roman took it in his hands, it became a shining sword. In his mind, the metal gleamed golden with sunlight, and the edges of the blade sung through the air, cutting to ribbons each foe that dared to come against the brave Prince Roman of the Southern Wood.

 _Shwoom!_ The wood golem fell before him, collapsing in a pile of twigs barely fit for kindling. _Thwack!_ The hag who turned herself into a dead old rose bush to spy on his Daddy’s secret recipes, screeched in pain as her ugly brown stems were clipped, and vanished sullenly into the ether. On and on, the Prince advanced, valiantly and skillfully defeating every monster unfortunate enough to cross his path. The dark fairies who lived in the fungi on logs. The bandits who hid in the shadows of trees. The ogres who had come from beyond the mountains searching for tasty little boys to gobble up. One by one they each challenged him, and one by one they fell. Prince Roman pressed his assault, not giving his enemies any quarter. He was so intent on ridding this fair land of foul beasts and villains that he forgot that he was supposed to stay in the yard, and instead ventured further and further into the woods beyond his house. And as he continued swiping at tree trunks and shrubbery, he never noticed the light scattering of snowflakes beginning to fall.

Back at the cottage, Patton stood in front of the glowing hearth, sprinkling a tiny amount of salt into the cast iron pot above the fire. There wasn’t much left after all the baking he’d been doing the past few days, but there was just enough to add that extra flavor to the cheese-and-potato stew he’d whipped up for dinner. The simple staple was easy enough to make, thanks to the trading he did with farmers Jones and McKinley for cheese and vegetables, and it was one of Roman’s favorite meals besides. Patton knew it was hard on the boy to watch him bake so many breads and goodies, but not be allowed to try any of them—heck, he’d been the one doing the baking, and _he’d_ been disappointed he couldn’t try any of them. The gentle pastry chef hoped that the stew, along with being able to burn away some of his ever-present energy would help to lift Roman’s spirits. And speaking of Roman, it was probably past time to call the boy in…

Patton gave the pot one more stir, before walking over to open the door. No sooner had he lifted the latch however, than a sudden gust of icy wind pushed both him _and_ the door back, causing him to stagger slightly as he tried to recover his center of balance. A single glance through the open doorway confirmed what he had feared: the blizzard had finally arrived. “Roman? Roman! It’s time to come in now,” Patton called, but the wind shrieked even louder, swallowing his words the very moment they left his mouth. Realizing the child would never be able to hear him, Patton hastily pulled on his winter cloak, his fingers trembling and slipping as he tried to tie the knot. After five minutes of struggling with the darn thing—five minutes where Roman could be hurt or trapped, freezing in the dark—Patton finally managed to tangle the string up enough to hold. Barely remembering to pull the door shut behind him, the baker ventured out into the storm, desperately screaming for his son and praying the boy was close enough to hear him.

But Roman, of course, was far out of hearing range. He had journeyed deep into the forest on his quest to slay the monsters plaguing his home, and it was only after he had managed to kill their leader, the dreaded Dragon Witch, that he was able to rest—and it was then that he noticed two very important things. One, his father had, unfortunately, been right about the blizzard. And two, it was a whole heck of a lot harder to tell where he was when he couldn’t see two feet in front of his face.

The boy gulped, fear beginning to twist his stomach in knots and prick uncomfortably along his spine. The wind, which had seemed so playful when he first went outside, now tore viciously at him like a starving wolf. Freezing cold seemed to seep into his bones, cutting clean through him, and Roman pulled the cloak as far around him as he was able, suddenly very glad his father had been so insistent on him wearing it. But even that wasn’t enough. The wind was howling, and the snow stung like nettles where it touched his skin, and it was cloudy and dark and hard to see through the icy clumps of slush being thrown about through the air.

Roman really wished he was home right now.

He wished he was home at the table, a fire crackling in the hearth, with his dad sitting across from him, smiling as he listened to Roman tell about how brave he had been and how he’d protected their home from all the horrible, disgusting creatures that had tried to hurt them. He wished wasn’t alone, stumbling blindly over rocks and around trees as he tried to avoid freezing to death. He wished he’d never gone into the forest in the first place, no matter how much of a jerk that wood golem had been. He wished—he wished—

He really wished he had seen the body _before_ he tripped over it.

He didn’t realize it _was_ a body at first. It was mostly covered in snow, and it looked more like a small log or maybe a bunch rocks all lined up one after the other—but not a person. It wasn’t until Roman braced himself against the not-a-log, that a bit of the snow got brushed away to reveal a piece of coarse black cloth underneath it.

Logs didn’t usually have coarse black cloth.

Curious, Roman brushed away more of the snow, uncovering the tall, lithe frame of a man. The boy leapt back with a squeal, shocked and surprised and a little bit disgusted. But after a moment where the person made no attempt to spring up and steal him away, like grownups always said strangers did, Roman slowly inched closer, his curiosity again getting the better of him.

The stranger was lying on his stomach, as though he had gotten tired of walking and just fell down. It took some pushing and pulling on Roman’s part, but he eventually managed to the roll the guy over, only to be met with an even stranger sight. The man’s skin was so pale that it looked like you could see his blood through it, what looked like thick, black veins stretching from just below his darkened eyelids, to underneath the collar of his tunic. A shock of purple hair poked out from inside the hood of his cloak, much to Roman’s utter amazement. The boy had heard tale from travelers and merchants that there were other kingdoms where it was common to dye hair the way a spinner dyed wool, but until today he had never met anyone who had. He might have been willing to stare at the vibrant color even longer, but the wind attacked him with another brutal gust of cold, bringing a very familiar voice along with it. “Roman! Roman, call back if you can hear me! Son!”

Roman surged to his feet, spinning to face the direction he thought he’d heard the shout. “I’m over here, Daddy!”

“Roman! Keep talking, kiddo, I’ll find you!”

Roman agreed, shouting out anything that popped into his head, until he finally saw the outline of his father making his way toward him.

“Roman!” Patton gripped him in his arms, hugging him _hard,_ and Roman squeezed back with as much strength as he was able. “I was starting to wonder if I’d ever find you! What in the world are you doing out here? I told you to stay in the yard!”

“I know,” Roman sniffed, tears pooling in his eyes. He quickly blinked them back, not understanding why he felt like crying. Daddy was here now! He wasn’t lost any more and soon they would go back home, and everything would be ok. What was there to cry about now? “I’m sorry, Daddy. It was that dumb wood golem again! He told me there was a-a whole camp of mean bad guys out in the forest, and that they were gonna torch our home and steal all your recipes! I had to stop them, Daddy. I had to.”

Patton squinted at the child. “Wood golem—? Roman, did you beat up my fence post again?”

“Uh…” Roman quickly pulled away from the hug, turning back around to face the man still laying in the snow. “Look! There’s someone out here.”

Patton glanced in the direction his son was pointing, at first assuming the boy’s imagination was just running away with him again. When he saw what Roman had found, however, his eyes widened and he let loose a startled gasp, instinctively pulling his son half-behind him. “Stay back, Roro!”

“Dad! It’s ok, he can’t kidnap me or anything,” the boy huffed, still watching the stranger with inquisitive eyes. “I think he’s sleeping.”

 _Sleeping_ was a loose euphemism at best—the man was unconscious and very likely in the process of freezing to death. But since there was no way Patton was going to share that unpleasant truth with the six-year-old, he simply replied, “ok, I’m going to see if he’s alright. You stay here, Roman.”

Roman pouted, but agreed, though his eyes never stopped tracking Patton’s movements as his father approached the traveler.

Patton knelt down beside the man, ignoring the sheer cold that seeped through his breeches. He drew the small blade that he carried in a hidden pocket inside his cloak and held the gleaming metal in front of the stranger’s nose. After a moment, a feather-light stream of mist coated the knife, proof that there was still life left inside him. Patton pocketed the weapon and considered the odd wanderer before him. It was clear that he needed help. The blizzard was getting worse and if he didn’t get out of the cold soon, Patton feared he wouldn’t be getting out of it at all.

“Daddy, can you hurry up and wake him up, already? It’s cold. I wanna go home,” Roman called over the wind, huddled as deep into his itchy winter cloak as he could get.

Patton sighed and walked back over to his son, so they didn’t have to shout to hear one another. “I can’t wake him up, Roman. He got hurt and now he’s got to sleep until he’s better.”

“Oh,” Roman frowned, his brow crinkling as he stared up at Patton. “But…we’re not just gonna leave him here, right? If he’s hurt, we should take him home with us. That way, at least he won’t be hurt and cold and all alone.”

“We’re not leaving him anywhere,” Patton assured. True, he had no idea who this man was or what he was capable of, but still the idea of leaving a total stranger behind to die made the baker’s stomach twist in revulsion. For better or worse, Roman had found him, so now it was up to them to try to help. “He’s coming home with us, but since he can’t walk on his own, we’re going to have to help him, ok?”

“Ok,” Roman agreed, only to tilt his head in confusion a second later. “Only, how’re we gonna do that, Daddy? He’s skinny, but _really_ heavy. I had to push forever to get him to roll over!”

Patton’s lips trembled as he tried to fight a smile. “I’m sure you did. Uh, do me a favor, Kiddo, and don’t mention that to our guest when he wakes up, ok? He might not like to know a stranger was, um…rolling him over…while he was sleeping.”

Roman nodded, his little face a mask of solemnity, and Patton sighed, returning his attention to the unconscious figure. “Ok. We’re going to need tree branches and a lot of vines to build a—well, it’s kind of like a sled, I guess. We’re going to use it to pull him home.” He glanced up at the cloudy winter sky. “And we’re going to have to hurry, before this blizzard really gets going.”

And so, together, father and son managed to craft a litter sturdy enough to bear the weight of the traveler. It was an ugly, misshapen thing, full of gaping holes and crisscrossing brushwood, but against all odds, it held together long enough for the trip back home.

When they arrived, the cabin was chilly and dark. Roman stomped the snow off his boots and hugged his arms to himself, not even bothering to untie his cloak. “Ah! It’s almost as cold in here as out in the storm, Daddy!”

“The fire must’ve gone out,” Patton realized, glancing at the dying embers underneath the stew pot. “Guess we were out there even longer than I realized. I’ll start a new one as soon as we find a comfy place for this fellow to rest.”

Roman looked at the slumped, still unconscious figure, then back to the crowded interior of the cabin. “Where are we gonna put ‘im?”

 _…That’s a very good point,_ Patton thought, glancing around his small home. The cottage was a modest little place, with one door and two windows—one near to the firepit and another in the back. The cooking and dining areas were one and the same, and farther back there was a ladder which led up to a loft. The loft was a simple room with two beds adjacent to one of the walls, and a curtain to section off an area for the washtub. It may not have been a grand palace in the city, but for a village baker and his young son, it was perfect. Unfortunately, the small size made it very difficult to entertain guests for more than a few hours.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to make do,” Patton chirped, flashing his son a determinedly optimistic smile. “Go on up to the loft and get the pillow and blanket from my bed. We’ll set him near the fire.”

While Roman monkeyed up the ladder, Patton pulled the crude litter over to the fireplace. He had just cut the vine they’d tied across the stranger’s chest to keep him from falling off during the trip home, when a sudden crash sent him whirling around, one hand immediately coming up to cover his heart. To his surprise and relief, Roman peeked up at him from a mound of pillows and blankets, grinning impishly as his floofy brown hair fell back into his eyes. “Uh, I got the pillows.”

“Roman! Are you trying to give me are heart attack, kiddo? How many times have I told you not to jump down the ladder?” Patton scolded lightly.

Roman picked himself up, his smile fading as met Patton’s eyes. “I dunno. A lot. But this is an emergency! And anyway, I threw the pillows an’ stuff down first.”

Patton had to swallow a laugh as his son, with his hair still sticking every which way, jutted out his lip and tilted his head in a way that made him strongly resemble a chicken with a neck spasm. “That doesn’t matter. You could’ve been seriously hurt. Next time _climb_ down the ladder, please. Save your old man the heart attack?”

“You’re not old,” Roman snorted as he tried to balance everything he’d brought down in his arms all at once. He ended up toddling over to Patton with one pillow clamped between his teeth and a blanket tangled around his leg.

“I know, it’s another way to say ‘dad’,” Patton explained. “I thought I only asked you to get the stuff from my bed?”

“Yeah, but I thought I could bring my stuff and yours, and we could all sleep down here. Like when I spend the night at Travis Thatcher’s house!”

Patton absolutely did not roll his eyes in front of his impressionable six-year-old. Even though he really, _really_ wanted to. “I bet you and Travis Thatcher had fun. But I don’t think we can do that here, kiddo.”

“Aw! Why not?”

“Because I don’t think our guest would like waking up in a strange place with people he’s never met before curled up next to him. We wouldn’t want to scare him, would we?” Patton explained as he bent down to help his son untangle himself.

“I guess not,” Roman huffed. “But I think it’s silly if he’s scared of us. I’m only scary to bad guys, not sleepy people.”

Patton grinned, folding one of the thin blankets into a makeshift pallet. “Oh, really? What about me?”

“You’re not scary at all, Daddy!” Roman stated boldly, laying one of the pillows on top of the pallet.

“Oh, I’m not, am I?” The baker challenged, carefully grabbing the unconscious man and partly-lifting-but mostly-dragging him onto the bed.

“Nope,” Roman grunted, doing the best he could to help (which given his small size, mostly consisted of picking up one of the traveler’s feet). “Not even a little.”

Patton raised an eyebrow, turning to face his son with a mock-threatening look. “Well, then. Wait until my good friend the tickle monster hears about this.”

Roman’s eyes widened and he immediately darted back with a high-pitched squeal of, “Daddy, no!”

“Too late, now. You’ve offended the tickle monster, and he will have his revenge.” Patton ran after the boy, and after a playful round of chase, caught the child by the arm before pulling him into a backwards bearhug.

Roman struggled and squirmed in Patton’s grasp. “Ah! Let me go, you ugly monster!”

“I’m not just any ugly monster,” Patton crowed, “I’m the tickle monster, and now I’m gonna eat you all up!” His fingers danced against Roman’s ribcage, earning a squawk of protest from the boy.

“Daddy! No! Qu-quit it...ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…D-Da-Daaaa-ha-ha-ha—”

“Yes?” Patton smiled innocently, pulling back his fingers just enough to allow his son to breathe.

Though he was still gasping for breath, Roman was well-versed in battling the dread tickle monster and made quick use of the opportunity presented to him. The crafty six-year-old bent his arm and swung back as hard as he could, jabbing Patton in the stomach with a bony elbow.

“Oooph,” Patton wheezed, loosening his arms just enough for Roman to tear free. The child quickly climbed on top of his chair. “Free all, free all!”

“Hey, we never agreed there’d be a safe area,” Patton groused playfully.

“Well…we never didn’t agree, either. “Roman shot back. “And I called free all first. So I’m safe and you gotta go back to the swamp you crawled out of, ya dumb monster.”

Patton laughed and dropped his faux-threatening stance. “Fair enough, kiddo. Now, how about you bring your blanket and pillow,” he gestured to the extra items which had gotten fairly trampled during the game, “back to the loft. I’ll get some wood and start up the fire, so our mystery guest doesn’t freeze to death before he wakes up. Then you and I can have supper, ok?”

“Ok,” Roman agreed, going to pick up the pillow and blanket. “What’s for supper?”

“Your favorite: cheese and potato stew.”

“Yes!” Roman cheered, his voice strident enough to rouse even the dead from their final sleep.

And on the floor, the unconscious traveler shuddered—only for a moment, as a shimmering blue glow surrounded him. The hidden enchantment which bound him went unseen by his two benefactors, for neither possessed Magical Sight, but as Roman raced up the ladder and Patton prepared himself to once again face the frigid cold, wisps of white fissures began to crack and chip away at the spell.

The magic was breaking.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning found Patton curled into a ball, trying in vain to stave off the worst of the winter chill. Roman had insisted on sleeping in his bed so they could share the blanket and pillow but at some point, during the night, the energetic six-year-old had moved in his sleep, pulling the blanket with him. Patton hadn’t been willing to wake his son just to regain a bit of the cover—especially since he had wanted Roman to take the pillow and blanket for himself in the first place. Unfortunately, the baker had vastly underestimated his ability to ignore the bitter cold and spent the majority of the night tossing and turning himself, trying to find a position that was just a little less freezing.

He was quite relieved when morning finally arrived.

Patton yawned and unfurled himself, stretching lightly in place before climbing out of bed. He rubbed his eyes, trying to relieve the blurring, muffled sensation that came with not getting enough sleep. Roman, ever the restless sleeper, rolled over yet again, smacking his lips as he the covers twined about him. Patton shook his head, a small smile passing over his face as he watched his son. Carefully, he leaned over to kiss the sleeping child’s brow. “Sleep well, kiddo,” he whispered before straightening and making his way out of the loft.

Humming a faint tune under his breath, the baker grabbed a few shafts of wood he’d stacked near the door last night. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the latch to check whether the blizzard had passed during the night. No sooner had he opened the door, however, than a mighty gust of wind crashed through the entryway, leaving a flurry of fresh powder in its wake. Patton gasped, a reaction to both the violent blast and the sudden sting of ice against his unprotected skin. He grappled with the door, pushing and pulling with all his strength. Finally, he managed to slam it shut by throwing his full weight against the wooden slab.

Patton slumped against the door, pressing his forehead into the grain of the wood as he panted heavily. It wasn’t even noontide yet, and already he wanted to sleep for a year! Preferably on some tropical island paradise that had never even _heard_ of winter…

The squeak of shifting floorboards reached his ears. Hastily, Patton painted a bright smile over his exhaustion and turned to face the loft, assuming that Roman had gotten up to see how breakfast was going. To his surprise, however, the boy was nowhere near the ladder. Patton’s forehead crumpled and he tilted his head, the over-exuberant smile on his face beginning to waver. He was _sure_ he heard something. Maybe it was just the house settling? It did that sometimes…

Patton pushed himself away from the doorway, gathering up the wood that had fallen in his battle against the elements. He turned toward the fireplace, his thoughts already on breakfast and whether he had enough eggs leftover after yesterday’s baking spree to make eggs in a nest for him and Roman.

Consequently, he was halfway to the hearth before he noticed the fierce, dark eyes tracking his every movement. 

The stranger was awake.

“Oh!” Patton gasped. “You—you’re finally conscious. Thank goodness!” The baker hurried over to the fireplace, quickly depositing the logs among the burnt ash, before turning to face his guest properly.

The stranger leaned back, a slight sneer twisting his lips, even as his eyes narrowed. Patton, recognizing that the man was uncomfortable with him standing so close, obligingly backed up a few steps. Like magic, the traveler’s scowl faded, but his eyes remained narrowed. He didn’t shy away from meeting Patton’s gaze, even when common curtesy would demand that he look somewhere else. In fact, he stared even longer, until the weight of his eyes became heavy on Patton and the baker himself longed to be one to look away.

As though he sensed this, the wanderer’s lips darted up, and for one second Patton caught a glimpse of something powerful and dangerous lurking inside this being—a monster inside the man. And then it vanished, like smoke on the wind, leaving only the same confusion and distrust upon the stranger’s face that had been present since their gazes first met. But Patton knew what he saw, and remembered, even as the stranger began to speak in a harsh, croaking voice, “Where am I? And who are you?”

Patton flushed cherry red. Whoever the man was, whatever mysteries he held, he was still a guest in Patton’s house. And Patton hadn’t even as much as introduced himself! “Forgive me, my name Patton, of the village Heartstone. My little boy Roman found you unconscious the other day when he was out playing in the woods. The blizzard was getting worse then, and you were alone, so we brought you back to our home and kept you warm during the night.”

The stranger finally turned away, his intense gaze flicking down to the blanket he still crouched upon and over to the pillow resting innocuously to his right. A second later his head snapped up, and he pinned Patton with those dark eyes, his stare cold as hoarfrost. “Why?”

The word might have been a question once, but here it was a challenge—harsh and fierce and demanding. Patton sucked in a shallow breath, the hair on the back of his neck beginning to prickle. “B—because you _unconscious_! And there was a blizzard! We—we couldn’t just leave you…” His words tampered off to an uneasy squeak as the stranger finally rose, the motions oddly languid and graceful for one who had been so near death only a short time ago.

The traveler closed the distance between them, and Patton couldn’t help but remember a hunting trip he’d gone on as a child and how he’d seen a starving wolf stalk and kill a young fawn, born too weak to keep up with its mother. In this situation, Patton realized, he was the fawn and the one standing before him was the wolf. And now nature, as his father liked to say, was about to take its course.

“What do you want?”

“Wh-what?” Patton gasped, his voice shaking as much as his hands.

The stranger gave him a look that suggested that not only was he a weak fawn, he was a very stupid one as well. “You saved me. You got me out of that blizzard, though you could have just as easily left me to die.”

Patton’s mouth dropped open and, for a moment, shock completely overwhelmed his fear. The absurd (and quite honestly offensive) implication of what the stranger was suggesting was enough to spark an ember of anger within the baker…an ember which quickly grew to a flame. “Left you to die? _Left you to die?!_ I would never have done anything like that! Not even if you were a bandit or an outlaw!”

The wanderer raised an eyebrow, somehow managing to turn his nose up at Patton despite being half a head shorter than the baker. “And what if I were a monster,” he challenged in a low, dangerous tone. “What if you knew it?”

Something niggled in the back of Patton’s mind. An obscure warning that, perhaps, he _did_ already know. Perhaps he already knew _exactly_ who stood before him.

Patton stepped closer to the stranger, until there was less than an inch of space in between them. He raised a finger and jabbed it hard into the shorter man’s chest. In the same low voice, he whispered, “I wouldn’t have left you if you were the Dragon Witch, herself.”

This time the stranger backed away. “Anyone else would have left me for dead. Some if they didn’t even know who I was. You don’t know, and yet you say it doesn’t matter. That you would’ve done the same thing regardless.”

“I would,” Patton insisted, his face softening. “Because it was the right thing to do. And because nobody deserves to freeze to death in a storm.”

The stranger laughed—a sharp, mocking sound. For a second, his eyes searched Patton’s, piercing the gentle baker with a gaze so intense that meeting it burned Patton’s sclera. But try as he might, he couldn’t look away.

“You truly believe that, don’t you? Then you are thrice cursed for a fool, because there are those in this world, Patton of Heartstone, that deserve such a fate more than you could ever imagine—and far worse, besides.” The traveler softened his penetrating stare, but when he spoke, his voice held the same cold intensity it always had. “Now, I ask again. What is your price for having saved me?”

Patton shook his head, sorrow shining in his eyes and engraved into the curve of his frown. “I want nothing. There is no price. I told you, it was the right thing to do. Whoever you are, whatever you’ve done, I can’t believe that leaving you to die alone in the blizzard, without so much as a friend to mourn you, would have been the just thing to do. I _won’t_ believe it.”

“Then congratulations,” the wanderer sneered. “You have the singular honor of being the most clueless moron I’ve ever had the displeasure to deal with. You probably deserve a medal.”

“Why? Why are you so convinced you deserve to die?” Patton hesitated, chewing slightly on his bottom lip as he finally broke eye contact with the caustic man before him. After a minute, he asked in a smaller voice, soft enough that if the snowfall outside had been any louder, it would have masked his speech completely, “who… Who are you?”

A jagged smile crossed the stranger’s face. “I would say…you think you know _exactly_ who I am.” He crossed the distance between them once more, leaning forward so Patton had no choice but to meet his eyes. “And if you do, tell me, do you regret having saved me now?”

Patton wanted to say no. He wanted, more than anything, to be able to hold onto his belief that what he did was right, that no one deserved to be left for dead the way this ~~man~~ beast was implying. But he couldn’t. He opened his mouth once, twice, trying to force the words past his lips, but all that ever came was a low, fearful whine.

Because the truth was, Patton had saved the one person who probably did deserve to die freezing and alone. And now, they both knew it.

The stranger straightened, ignoring Patton’s flinch as he walked past. Patton scrambled to face him, his eyes wide and terrified as he followed the monster’s movements toward the door. Rather than turning back, however, the beast merely placed one hand on the latch and tilted his head just enough to glance at the baker out of the corner of his eye. “I owe you a favor. When you’re ready to redeem it, you need only call on me.” Without waiting for an answer, he lifted the latch, but the door never opened. Instead, a royal purple smoke began to swirl around him, thick and glimmering like the sun on the sea. The air crackled, sharp with the tang of magic, and in an instant, the monster had vanished.

And the only signs that he had ever been there at all, were the pillow, the blanket, and the crack of the latch as it clattered back into place.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Lockevale, Present time:**

Patton almost jumped clear out of his skin as a sudden knock pulled him away from his memories. For a moment, he felt caught between the present and the past, unsure if the thumping he heard was the sound of the latch settling back into place or the sound of someone trying to get him to open his bedroom door. Then he felt the cool blade pressed against his palm, and his confusion cleared.

The knock repeated, more insistent this time, and Patton glanced desperately around for a place to hide the dagger. Still unable to find a good enough hiding place, the baker hastily shoved the artifact under the covers, before getting up to answer the door. He didn’t expect to find his son standing on the other side of it.

“Roman,” Patton gasped, his eyebrows inching up his forehead. “What are you doing here? You should be downstairs with your friends.”

Roman gave a slight, breathless kind of laugh. The kind people gave when they were just barely holding everything together. “Yeah, I probably should. But I thought it was more important to come up here and ask you something.”

A concerned frown flitted over Patton’s face and he stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him. “What is it, son? What can I do for you?”

Roman ground his teeth together. “You can tell me why you lied about the dagger.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“Bull!” Roman spat, careful not to raise his voice too much, lest the sound travel. “You told me the dagger was gone! When we came to this world, you told me it disappeared! And now it turns out you’ve been hiding it all along? Hiding it from me?”

“No!” Patton barely managed to keep his own voice to a whisper as he fought the wave of emotion that rose within him at the sight of his son’s wounded expression. “Not from you! Never from you! From everyone else.” Patton raised a hand to caress Roman’s face, wanting to do anything to lift the shadow of pain and anger from the teenager’s eyes. “You know how dangerous the dagger is. What others would do to possess it. What _he_ would do—”

Roman pulled away before Patton could touch him. “This isn’t about him! It’s about you and me! It’s about how you’ve been lying to me from the start!” The teen paused, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears that were gathering in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice warbled, jumping in octaves as he struggled to keep his composure. “You said no more secrets. But I guess you just meant that _I_ wasn’t allowed to keep any more secrets.”

“Roman, no that’s not true! I didn’t mean for—the dagger fell through with us, I couldn’t just—” This time, Patton broke himself off, sighing deeply. “I was going to tell you, I promise. I was just waiting for the right time! After everything that happened—”

“No.” Roman glared at Patton, and while the expression might have been somewhat ruined by the red flush on his face and the tears just beginning to fall from his eyes, the anger that burned within was conveyed loud and clear. “I _told_ you what happened! He told you! But you didn’t believe either of us. You didn’t _trust_ either of us. And you still don’t trust me now. So why should I listen to a thing you have to say?”

“Roman,” Patton tried, his own voice weak with pain. But it was too late. The teen merely turned and walked back down the stairs, his shoulders shaking as he disappeared from sight.

With a cry born of hurt and frustration, Patton retreated into his room and all but threw himself on the bed. The dagger poked and prodded at him from under the covers, as persistent as a thorn in his flesh. Tears streamed down the baker’s face and he pulled the blade out from under him, not even glancing at it as he flung it away.

As Patton wept for a relationship he feared damaged beyond repair, the dagger bumped softly against the carpet, landing in the shadow of the rain. Unnoticed by its’ distraught guardian, the name engraved on the flat of the blade began to glow a sullen red.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I have been re-watching way too much OUAT. Am I going to stop anytime soon? Probably not. Oh well, at least you all get a new story out of it and I got out of my writing slump. We all won the day. I have more ideas for this verse and I'm loosely planning to write more stories for it (I say loosely, because we all know how well that worked out last time [insert sardonic eye roll here]...) 
> 
> Anyway guys, please stay safe. Drink water, get enough rest, and eat your vegetables, too :)
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> ~Compass_Rose


End file.
